She clearly wasn’t going to help him. Banks felt his tongue growing too big for his mouth. Annie was paying for the drinks now. “Well, I mean, would you?”

“Would I what?”

“Like to have dinner with me at Le Coq d’Or.”

“I’d love to,” said Joanna.

“You would? I mean, I don’t think I can honestly take a free meal there, but if I start saving up now, I might be able to make a reservation before Christmas.”

Chapter 16

16

THERE WERE NO CARS PARKED OUTSIDE CONNOR CLIVE Blaydon’s villa when Banks and Gerry turned up there after the DNA tests had come up positive and Jason Bartlett had been charged with the murder of Samir Boulad. Annie was still working with the CPS on preparing the case for prosecution, along with that of Chris Myers as accessory. Gerry was quite happy to get out of the squad room for a road trip. Banks wondered how Blaydon managed without Frankie Wallace to drive him around. Maybe he’d hired a new chauffeur.

The judge had refused to grant a search warrant for Blaydon’s property on the scant evidence the police had presented, dismissing it as hearsay and circumstantial. Banks suspected there was more to it than that—perhaps the occasional golf game, tips on the property market—but he held his tongue. Even without a search warrant, they had one or two things they wanted to discuss in more detail with Blaydon.

They wouldn’t have expected to find any incriminating evidence at his house, anyway. Blaydon would be a bigger fool than Banks thought he was if he hadn’t quickly got rid of Samir’s backpack and jacket after Frankie had handed them over. Gashi would have wanted his drugs back, of course, and Blaydon would probably have burned the jacket. At best they might find a few grams of white powder left over from a party, but that was a charge a man like Blaydon could beat in his sleep with the lawyers he could afford.

The fountain seemed to have dried up, or someone had turned it off at the mains. A dead bird floated among fallen leaves in the brackish water that remained. It had been windy and raining just that morning, but now nothing stirred in the humid air. The topiaries looked frightening and made Banks think of Stephen King’s Overlook Hotel in The Shining, where the trimmed shapes came to life. Banks felt a trickle of sweat down his back as he walked to the front door and rang the bell. Nobody answered. As far as he could tell, all was silent inside. He touched the door and was surprised when it swung slowly open on its hinges. He glanced at Gerry, went into the hallway and called out Blaydon’s name. Nobody answered. Not even Roberts, the butler. His voice echoed in the cavernous space.